Just What I Needed

by Lorelei James

  “I only lost around ten minutes this time.” I tried really hard not to stare. But the man’s presence just filled a room in a way I’d never encountered before.

  “Are we really gonna do this, Trinity?”

  “Do what?” I asked. I wasn’t clear on what he meant.

  “Stand here and look at each other awkwardly? I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  “Maybe the real question is, what do you want to do, Walker?”

  He eliminated the ten feet between us in three quick steps. Then his hands cradled my face and his mouth crashed down on mine.

  His kiss was electric. Hungry. Relieved. Sweet.

  After he ended the kiss, he crushed me to his chest. “That’s what I want to do every time I see you.”

  “Well, speaking from experience, that is a great way to say hello.”

  He chuckled.

  I tipped my face back and nearly lost my head again as I gazed into his intensely beautiful blue eyes. “Thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Making the first move. Even when we’ve kissed, and gone out on a date, I wasn’t sure if we’re together.”

  “Yes, babe, we are.”

  “Then I will accept your class ring on a necklace as proof that we are going steady and are officially a couple.”

  Walker gave me the dimpled grin that made my knees weak. “Or I could give you a hickey.”

  “That actually sounds like more fun.”

  Soft, warm lips landed on the side of my neck. He brushed his mouth up and down in an erotic arc. “I could spend hours kissing you right here,” he murmured against my skin, “trying to choose the perfect spot to leave my mark.”

  Yes. Let’s start now.

  “Hey, Walker, is Trinity in here?” Nate yelled from the doorway.

  Walker raised his head and said, “Do you want to keep on the down low here? Or do we admit we’re coupling?”

  Two voices warred inside my head:

  Keep it under wraps; who knows how long it’ll last?

  Screw that. Let the entire world know that this hot man is hot for you.

  Keeping one hand on Walker’s chest, I stepped to the side.

  Nate looked confused for a moment. “Oh, uh . . . hi, Trinity. I didn’t, uh . . . see you there.”

  “Walker casts a pretty big shadow. What did you need?”

  “The director wants to know if you can paint the section with the flowers next. We’ll be doing the blocking for that scene first thing on Thursday.”

  “No problem.”

  Walker faced Nate and draped his arm over my shoulder. “The schedule is done?”

  “Yes.” Nate pulled out a piece of paper and handed it over. “The other thing I’m supposed to ask Trinity: Would it be easier if someone else primed the sets?”

  “That would be great.”

  “I’ll let the director know. If either of you can think of anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “I do have a question,” Walker said. “Would it be possible to get a key so I can come in late when no one is here? I have insomnia some nights and I might as well be productive.”

  It shocked me that Walker had admitted that to a stranger. But there were more important things to address. “I imagine the answer will be no since I also imagine there’d be issues with liability insurance, especially since you’d be here alone running power tools. From a commonsense standpoint that’s not safe. What if something happened? You couldn’t call for help. And if you could, emergency services would have to break down a door to gain entrance. And no offense, but how can they be sure if something did happen that you wouldn’t sue them?”

  Walker made a noise like he was choking down a laugh. “I can promise I’d never file a lawsuit. But I understand your concerns, Nate—” he said to me since I’d just jumped on in. “Why don’t you call LCCO, ask for Priscilla in the main office, explain the situation and my request for a key. I suspect she’ll give you an immediate answer.”

  “Sure. It’s worth a shot. I’ll let you know. Later.” Nate hustled out the door.

  I shook my head at Walker.

  “What?”

  “It’s dangerous to be here alone.”

  “I’m not an amateur, babe. I’d probably stick with finish work, which requires minimal power tools.” He bent closer and kissed me on the nose. “It’s sweet that you’re worried.”

  “I was worried. Now I’m just annoyed because you’re acting as if a big, macho tool expert such as yourself couldn’t possibly have an accident.” I poked him in the chest. “FYI: They’re called accidents for a reason.”

  He curled his hands around my hips and squeezed. “Then in that case maybe you’ll have to meet me down here. That way, if I break a nail you can patch me up.”

  “Funny.” I slid my hands up his chest and smoothed my fingertips down his beard. “Do you really have insomnia?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.” He sighed. “And it’s worse when I have to work nights—I get home and I can’t wind down. I figured I’d use that time to my best advantage since I’m not sleeping.”

  “Maybe, after we’ve been going steady for more than a couple of days, we can come up with a better way to kill time together in the wee small hours of the night,” I said, adding a rowr.

  “Jesus, Trinity.” His sexy growl rolled over me as potent as a caress. “Lock the door so we can try out a few of those late-night fantasies right now.”

  His phone buzzed in his back pocket.

  I stepped away to let him answer it, because I knew he would.

  “I thought I told you not to call.” Pause. “Like I’d know the Swedish phrase for that? You wanna call him a scum-sucking douchebag, do it in English! He’ll get the gist.”

  But I didn’t bother to pretend I wasn’t listening.

  “No,” he said adamantly. “Because you’ll end up in jail and I am not bailing you out. Oh yeah? Call Mom and tell her what your plans are. Or maybe I should tattle on you like you used to do on me?” He laughed. “Anatomically impossible. And just for that—no way. You need help, call Jens. Fine. Ash is in town. Or call Nolan—he’s probably still at the office. It’s only Monday. He hasn’t picked his skank-of-the-week yet. I’m hanging up now.” He held his phone in front of him. “Fuck.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  Walker whirled around as if he’d forgotten about me. “My sister is way the hell pissed off about the favor she was railroaded into doing for our cousin. But instead of railing on him, I get to deal with her in Godzilla mode.”

  “Same cousin that had car trouble last week?”

  “No.”

  “Swedish curse words, skank-of-the-week, possibility of jail time . . . sounds entertaining.”

  He snorted. “Don’t get me started on the craziness that is my family.”

  I recognized he’d said that with no real malice. Not like my family—who really meant it when they said the craziness that is Amelia.

  “Come find me if you get done early,” he said distractedly and walked out.

  I found the pieces needed for the scenes this week and primed the boards. One coat took thirty minutes to dry, so as I waited I went over my sketches again. This backdrop would be the only spot of color in the otherwise dreary background, so color was more important than fine detailing. I cracked open the paint cans and stirred the paint. I needed a shade between dark burgundy and scarlet. I dumped some of each color into an empty quart can, added white and kept mixing until I was satisfied.

  Once I fell into that working groove, everything around me blurred. I kept at it until I’d filled the board.

  I tossed my paintbrush onto the plastic tray and noticed the mess I’d created. Some painters could go all day without getting even a single drop of paint on their clothing. I was usually covered. It didn’t matter what medium I worked in—even with textiles I’d be coated in fabric fuzz and metal shavings.

  “I love to watch you work.”

  I gl
anced over my shoulder at him. “How long have you been there?”

  “Long enough to see the last two flowers take shape.” He offered me his hand and helped me up.

  “They were trickier to get right than I’d allotted time for.” I gave him a once-over. He was sawdust-free. “You’re already done?”

  “Already? It’s been three hours.”

  No wonder my neck hurt. I moved my head from side to side, trying to work the kinks out. “Is everyone gone?”

  “Nate’s still here.”

  “Waiting on me to finish.”

  Walker grinned. “Another logical reason for me to have a key. He could’ve already gone home and I could lock up.”

  “Since Nate is here . . . you don’t have to stay.”

  “I want to stay.”

  “I’m about to delve into the suckiest part of being an artist. Cleaning up.”

  I expected him to leave. But he just said, “What needs done first?”

  “The paper I used as drop cloths can be picked up and thrown away. Unless you’d rather clean brushes and the airbrush machine?”

  His face fell. “You airbrushed something? I wanted to see you do that.” Then he headed toward the section of sky and clouds I’d propped beneath the chalkboard. “This is it.” He crouched to get a better look and studied it for several long moments. “You nailed it.”

  “It’s a simple cloud formation. I hope I nailed it.”

  “No, it’s not simple. That’s what you see at first glance on one of those gloomy winter days when you gaze up at the sky and wonder if everything will always be colorless and bland. But then you notice the shadows and highlights of different shades of gray in the clouds and the hidden textures. It amazes me you can capture this on Styrofoam.” He moved and stopped in front of me. “Am I wrong? Did I not see it the way you’d intended?”

  “I’m thinking you see too much,” I murmured.

  “That scares you.”

  Not a question, so I wasn’t compelled to answer.

  The silence stretched as we considered each other.

  Finally, he said, “Why does it scare you?”

  “I’m not exactly normal, Walker.”

  “Can you explain that, sweetheart?”

  “Have you ever been involved with a woman who creates something out of nothing? Who spends a lot of time alone staring at a blank canvas or a blank computer screen or block of clay? And I’m not talking about women who draw for fun, or write for fun, or sculpt for fun. I’m talking about women who make their living solely from their creativity.”

  He shook his head.

  “Creative people . . . our brains work differently. Not better, not worse, just not like yours. There has to be a certain amount of ego involved to believe that strangers are willing to pay you for what you create. But the balance to that ego is loads and loads of self-doubt. At least it is for me. Add in income highs and lows to the creative highs and lows . . .”

  “And?”

  “And that doesn’t make you reach for your hat as you’re booking it out the closest door?”

  “Are you trying to stop this before it starts?” he said softly.

  “No. But being involved with me won’t always be easy.”

  “Nothing worthwhile ever is.” He gave me a wistful smile. “I like that you’re warning me up front that you’re going to be a lot of work.”

  “You are?”

  “Yep. It’ll give me a chance to prove my awesome work ethic.”

  Oh yeah. He was so smooth even I believed him. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Duly noted.”

  We were stuck in that awkward “Who talks first?” silence.

  “Trinity,” he finally said. His gaze roamed from my forehead to my chin, across my cheeks and lingered on my mouth. “I need to tell you something.”

  My stomach clenched at the seriousness of his tone. “What?”

  “There’s paint all over your face. Speckled white spots on green streaks. And a big purple dot on your chin. Reminds me of that Dr. Seuss book my mom read to me as a kid.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me I resemble a freakin’ Dr. Seuss character before now?”

  He grinned. “Because you look adorable.”

  I flapped my hand at him, trying to shoo him away.

  “Where were you using purple paint?”

  “I mixed it with white to get the shade of gray I needed. Why?”

  “You really got into the grays, didn’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Your ponytail. It’s streaked with gray. Is using your hair as a brush some fancy technique you learned in college?”

  I curbed the urge to smack my forehead—or his. “Don’t you have paper to pick up?”

  After he started his task, I grabbed the rubber mallet and hammered the lids on the paint cans. Then I lined them along the back wall in order from darkest to lightest and did the same with the spray cans. I made sure the cans of primer were in plain sight so people wouldn’t rummage through my organized paint stash. I gathered all the brushes into a large plastic container and took them to the big sink in the kitchen.

  Walker crossed the tile floor behind me. He pressed his front to my back and kissed the side of my neck. “I’m done. Need help?”

  “No. I’m finished with everything except removing the polka dots from my face.”

  “That I can help with.”

  The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the counter with Walker’s hips pressing the inside of my thighs. He gripped my jaw with one hand and dabbed at my face with a damp strip of cloth.

  “You don’t have to do that. If I’m a serious mess it’d be best if I clean up at home.”

  “Just sit there and look pretty. It’s not as bad as I made it out to be.”

  “Why would you tell me that?”

  “Because I wanted an excuse to touch you.”

  “Oh. Well. Okay, then.”

  Being this close to him, I could study him without it being weird. The man truly was a work of art. From his bold bone structure to his vivid blue eyes, his facial features were stunning. There were his thick eyebrows, his long sweep of dark eyelashes, his regal nose and the pouty bow of his lips. His facial hair was a mix of tawny browns and muted golds, with white blond strands and wisps the color of dark chocolate.

  “You’re staring at me,” he grumbled.

  “Because you are a feast for the eyes.”

  His lips curled. “Glad you think so.”

  “Would you let me sculpt you?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “If I have to sit still for hours on end.”

  Funny that was his biggest concern. “No. But I’ll need to touch you a lot.”

  Walker’s powerful gaze locked on to mine. “I’d only agree to that if I got equal time touching you.”

  The nearness of him—his scent, his body heat, the sensual way he performed something so basic as removing paint from my skin—had me tossing caution to the wind. “That’d only be fair.”